by Jenna Rhodes
“Who are you?”
The other looked at him. He seemed to blend back into the shadows of the grove, unremarkable except for his height, and the storm-gray cloak over his shoulders, and the storm of his eyes, a hint of pewter hair tucked under the hood. “I don’t give my name out,” he answered slowly, “but I think you may have need of it someday, though your memory will be short till then. I am the one called Daravan. Now, go!” He slapped his hand on the horse’s hindquarters sharply and the steed bounded away, Hosmer holding on with the last of his failing strength, headed home.
Chapter Twenty-One
GARNER SHINNIED UP to the top of the tree, inspecting leaves and such as he went, the emeraldbark towering above the apple trees, like the dignified sentinel it was. Its verdant branches ruffled little as Garner moved among them. Fringing the orchards, these emeraldbarks served as more than windbreaks. Their tough bark endured the scourge of many an attack that might kill the orchards, but also, because of their native attraction, they held signs of any infestation first. As Tolby had often shown his sons, the health of the apple trees was dependent upon the health of the wild groves and countryside about them, life interwoven with life. Garner turned leaf after leaf over in his palm, seeing little sign other than the nibblings of caterpillars, expected and not worrisome on this scale. He settled in the uppermost branches a moment to look out. A gentle wind led the edge of a storm from the north, rain to be expected, even welcome, but Garner frowned. The wind carried another omen to him, this one unexpected and strange, and he tilted his face to it, listening.
The bell of hounds on a scent, their deep baying alerting those who’d loosed them. He wondered what they hunted, their howls not familiar, nothing like the hound packs in the valley that occasionally went out. The wailing, faint as it came to him, raised the hair on the back of his neck with its barely-heard lust for blood. Garner drew back a little on his high-top perch. He would not want to be the quarry in that hunt.
Fumbling about in the shoulder-slung pouch he wore, he found the sprayer and dowsed the upper leaves for precaution. A mixture of toback juice and herbs that Tolby and Lily had concocted years ago seemed to keep harmful insects from ravaging their trees. Finished, he stowed his gear, then shifted about on the branches and stood on a limber, swaying one, taking a last look about. That was when he saw Beacon Hill flare with orange, and then settle into a steady blue-orange glow, its smoke far different from the storm rolling slowly in from the north. Below, on the slopes, he saw a running figure.
Without question, Garner slid down the tree, skinning his hands, not feeling the pain, as he jumped the last span, hitting the ground in a deep-kneed crouch. Wishing, for once, he had a horse or pony instead of his own two feet, he set a course for the runner, grass and brush snagging at his trousered legs as he dashed headfirst toward the trouble. Bolgers could be as cowardly as slime dogs, and he figured to scout out which way they were coming in. He’d worked too hard to let them make off with another year’s harvest and pressing. Tools jingled and jangled in his sack as he vaulted over fallen limbs and gnarled bushes, the beacon burning in his eyesight.
Then he realized the howling had stopped, and the only noise he heard was his own thrashing about. Garner dropped to a walk, and then stilled altogether, trying not to breathe hard, his senses pitched to the wild woods about him. Sweat dribbled down his rib cage and flank, plastering his shirt to his torso, and something he’d run through began a small, but persistent itch along his left hand. Nothing mattered but the eerie silence around him. Running after trouble was one thing, having trouble run after him quite another. If his da were around, he’d cuff him on the head for being so stupid.
He heard nothing other than his own breath rattling around in his lungs, and took a deep one, relaxing a mite.
He’d gotten away with it, this time. Garner turned on one heel to scout for a tree fit for scaling and taking another look-see.
The thing leaped at him.
He caught a huge blur at the corner of his eye and went down, rolling, its weight carrying it past him, brushing him with a shell-like hardness that cut and scraped as it crossed over him. Garner grabbed a handful of soft dirt and mud as he got up, throwing it at the thing as he jumped back in retreat. It batted at the debris, standing up and bringing itself to its full height, with a rasp and a chitter, black stick wings humming in irritation. The Raver eyed him as he might a nicely grilled steak, and Garner pulled at the short sword in his sack, jangling among the pruners and trowels and sprayer. It came free in his hand as he jerked it, and the sprayer tumbled out as well, toppling at his feet. Garner kicked it aside.
Soft, torn crimson cloth so dark it looked black wrapped the thing. Inside the shroud, he could see tiny pinpoints of light. Could it even see? It sensed him, that he knew. But could it see?
Something inside the rags clacked. It jumped on stilted legs, vaulting him, and Garner turned with a gasp, jabbing at thin air. The Raver landed and made a noise of . . . what? Amusement? It towered over him, shadows weaving about it, as if it could draw the very storm’s edge closer to it. He thought he smelled the char of burned wood on it as well. He wondered who had lit the beacon, no longer wondering why, and if that person had survived. He tried not to think that his brother had been among the patrollers.
All that mattered now was that he get past this thing, past and away, to warn the others just what it was they faced.
It jumped at him again, soundlessly, and Garner fell back, sword thrusting upward, trying to find a soft spot in the ragged body, finding only hard shell that turned back his blade again and again as it brought him down with hands that felt like razors. Much heavier than the stiltlike thing had looked, Garner could not throw it off. He parried with the sword, again and again, feeling it strike then miss, then slice again, hot warmth running over him.
He kicked up with both feet, knees doubled, at the center of it, squirming away. It rolled off with a harsh squeak, chittering, and then went silent as it scrambled back up, those eerily dancing lights inside its hood fastened on Garner as Garner stood, crouching slightly, muscles bunched. It waved its hands, rags shivering about it, and he could see pincerlike fingers running with crimson. Bright droplets fell to the ground. His face and chest stung.
His blood.
Garner bared his teeth. “Come on with it,” he growled at the Raver. “Let’s see what you’re made of!”
Its wings lifted. Garner braced for another leaping charge, but the thing ducked and came straight at him instead.
It hit him hard enough that the sword went flying one way and he another, grappling with the Raver. He could feel something sink deep into his side. He gasped with the push of it; it was digging deep. Garner threw out his free hand, reaching for a branch, dirt, anything to fight with. He grasped something hard and round and brought it up, smashing it over the shrouded head.
The clay sprayer pot broke into a thousand pieces, dumping the concoction all over the two of them. It stung like fire in his wounds and eyes. Tears sprang up instantly, Garner coughing and choking. The Raver leaned in, the pincer in his side digging through his flesh, digging for the kill. Garner put the heel of his hand up under the thing’s hood, catching a hard edge of bonelike jaw and pushed inexorably upward, struggling to breathe, the thing rasping and rattling at him, its pincerlike hand sinking into him. It seemed to go on forever.
Bumblebee let Tolby know first that they drew near something. The shaggy pony lifted his head, let out a long whinny of challenge, and jolted to a stiff-legged stop, the cart bouncing roughly behind him. A true son of Acorn he was, though he was a good deal bigger than his sire, a pony who would not let any horse back him down. Tolby glared into the scruff-edged woods along with the pony, seeing nothing but hearing something at the edge of his senses. The sharp crack of a branch. The quiet of the birds and varmints about, as if the area listened with him. A faint hint of a rank scent he could not quite make out. Something trespassed beyond them.
Whatever it was, he w
asn’t going to meet it sitting in the cart. He gritted his jaw in decision before knotting the reins around one hand, his breath escaping in a gruff curse. He threw the wheel brake into place and stood up. Bumblebee shuddered beneath his bushy winter coat and tossed his head with a chuff as Tolby wrapped the reins about the brake and jumped free of the cart. He grabbed his long-armed pruner as he did and made his way toward the thinning wild woods and heavy brush, even as he heard the shambling movement of something headed his way inexorably from off the Beacon plateau. Twigs snapped, then stopped, and something breathed heavily, pushing toward him. Tolby wrapped his hands about his pruner tightly as he set his heels.
The noise came to a halt. Whatever it was, it came to a rest just beyond his line of sight. Tolby growled softly to himself. He had been in enough fights in his life and wasn’t particularly interested in starting any more, but he was still young enough and strong enough to finish one if he had to, and he was damned impatient with anything between him and that bonfire on the hill. There weren’t enough Bolgers to stop him.
He heard broken wheezing, and then a horse pushed through the tree branches, staggering toward him, head down, reins loose, his rider slumped over his neck, barely in the saddle. Tolby’s jaw dropped, and then the pruner pole, rattling. One of the greatest fears of his life stopped before him.
His heart thumped heavily in his chest with the jolt of it but he shook free of the moment. He leaped forward before the horse could stumble back into the undergrowth as it rolled a wild eye at him. Tolby grabbed a fistful of mane as it shied from him, nearly losing Hosmer altogether. The horse shuddered to a grateful stop as Tolby pulled the head to his chest, and muttered a gruff command, and rubbed his knuckles over the animal’s forelock. The horse let out a low moan, and put his head down. Tolby reached for his son, trying to steady the thunderous pulse in his chest. Hosmer fell off the saddle and into his arms like a wet sack of grain, head lolling. But he breathed. Thank the Gods, he breathed.
Bow-legged with Hosmer’s weight, Tolby got to the cart bed and laid him down as easily as he could. His son’s head lolled to one side, and then an eye opened. “Da?”
“Don’t say nothin’. You’re almost home.” He put the cart tailgate up, doubling Hosmer’s legs a little to get him to fit. He was covered in blood and dirt, the longcoat wrapped about his leg slick with it, and the sight made Tolby’s throat tight. He thought of loosening it, then realized why Hosmer had tied it so tightly, trying to stem the flow of blood. Home, to Lily with her poultices, was his only chance.
“Have. Have to. Tell you.” Hosmer swallowed. Under the soot of smoke, and mud, and grass, and spilled blood, his skin had gone sheet white and pale. “The beacon—”
“Been lit. Not your worry.”
“Da.” Hosmer’s face screwed into a terrible grimace as he fought for a breath. “Listen, will you?”
Tolby fumbled with the horse’s reins, tying him to the cart bed. His voice came out gruffly, barely at all. “Spit it out, then.”
“The Barrel boys, dead. In my pocket for the family. Bolgers. Hounds. Ravers tore ’em to bits. All dead but me. I lit the beacon. Get home. Run, Da. Nothing will stop them.” Hosmer took another deep, shuddering breath. “Please,” he breathed out, and then his eyes flickered. Tolby’s blood ran cold at the sound of it. His son’s body went slack, but his chest heaved again, and again. Tolby ran his hand over his son’s face, brushing it clean.
He jumped in the cart, unwrapping the reins, and snapping loose ends at Bumblebee’s haunches. “Move your ass!” he shouted, and Bumblebee bolted in surprise, then put his pony head down and ran as best he could, Tolby standing in the fore of the cart, yelling and whipping as they went.
Keldan searched the nearby orchards frantically, finding no sign of Garner or his gear. Finally, he slowed to a trot, his mouth gone dry. The need to get home surged through his mind. Rounding a small freshet of water trickling through the outer lines of the grove, he aimed for the ranch. Lily stood outside, waving her apron, laughing at Grace and Nutmeg’s quest to corral a small but very agile young goat. Lily looked up and saw him. For a moment, the laughter and happiness at the goat chase lit up her expression, then she realized he’d run in, alone. She dropped her apron down.
“What is it? What’s gone wrong?”
Keldan bent over, hands on his knees, drawing in huge gulps of breath. He pointed behind him, sentences short as he tried to get his wind. “Beacon’s lit. Da says, trouble. Get you together. Hosmer on patrol. Can’t find Garner.”
Nutmeg put her hand to her brow, squinting up at the hills. She looked to her mom and let out a snort. “Bolgers again. I’d like to twist their whiskers.”
“It’s the wrong time of year to be raiding our harvest and mill. They come in the fall. It’s almost summer.” Lily brushed a strand of silvery hair from her brow as she frowned, and worry settled on her face. “We’ll be hiding this time instead of taking a stand,” she added, despite a stomp of a foot from Nutmeg.
Grace had caught the little goat, its soft ear in her grasp even as her gaze went far away, before seeming to come back. She rubbed the soft flap between her fingers, saying, “I hate the cellar.”
“I’ve made the choice, and we’ll stick to it, until Tolby gets here and decides otherwise. Better safe than sorry.” Lily pointed at Keldan. “Get fresh water down there. I’ll get the girls busy. Loose the goats, the chickens, the ponies. Everything stabled up goes free.”
“They’ll be scattered from here till sundown,” Keldan protested.
“Then it’s more work facing us later. I’ll not give the Bolgers their meal in a pen! When you’re done, find me inside. We’ve readying to do. No dillydallying now!” Lily slapped Keldan on his shoulder, pushing all of them into movement. He staggered off on legs still wobbly from his run, then threw his shoulders back and steadied himself.
Rivergrace rubbed the tiny, stubborn goat along the neck in farewell, and pushed it away. It bounded straight up on its spindly legs and dashed toward the pens with a defiant bleat. She made it to the pens first, dragging open the pole gate. She and Nutmeg dashed through, waving their arms and flapping their skirts, sending the goats out in a mad scamper, stiff-legged in surprise, their bleats filling the air. It would take days to round them back up, yet she could not bear the thought of the Bolgers spitting and roasting her babies. Nutmeg circled her and went to the coops, shooing out the rooster and the chickens in a flurry of feathers. She sneezed as she emerged, a basket of eggs in her hand, and took to her heels as the ponies stampeded past her, snorting and galloping as Keldan took a green stick to their haunches, driving them away from mangers of hay and into the open fields. With the barn and corral cleared, he disappeared in the direction of the well, clay jugs in his hands.
Grace gazed about the farmyard. She upended a few of the tidy stacks of crates and barrels, making it look as if they’d gone through the area in haste. She dusted her hands and followed Nutmeg in slowly, where Lily had already thrown open cupboards in the kitchen and removed a few small treasures . . . pots and lids, and a few dishes, and placed them in a crate to take down to the cellar. She added a sack of breads and cheeses, looking up. “Go through the rooms. Fill the traveling backpacks with a few items, sturdy wear, cloak, boots, and such. Leave the drawers and cabinets open. Stuff a blanket in the pack if you can, but don’t take much. I want it stowed below when you’re done.”
Nutmeg nodded, and headed for the upstairs, Grace on her heels. They did as their mother had bidden, and Rivergrace found her reluctance growing as they went from room to room. She took the backpacks down to the root cellar carved out for hiding, darker, deeper, than the main cellar, with bags of stored onions and garlics, to hide their smell. She’d never been down here with the whole family before. It would be even more crowded, and she had to stoop slightly to go in and out as it was. Going out, she knew she couldn’t go back in. Her throat tightened until she felt like a corked bottle, unable to breathe. Light-headed, she l
eaned against the tunnel wall for a moment. The darkness and closeness pressed around her. She would have run, if she could have, her heart thumping in her chest. Nutmeg nudged her from behind. “Come on, we’re almost done.”
When the nudge didn’t work, Nutmeg just pushed her up the tunnel, grunting and mumbling, and giving Grace a shake. Lily gave neither of them a chance to speak, shoving their arms full of bolts of cloth and sacks of odds and ends she’d gathered, saying, “Stow them as best you can. That’ll be all we can take down there, we need room for ourselves.”
Grace bolted back down while she had the will to do so, emptying her armload as quickly as she could. Upstairs in the main house, she stood quiet and still for a long moment, willing her pulse to steady and her nerves to calm. Lily emerged from the kitchen and pantry area, her mouth half open to say something when a clatter arose in the yard, Keldan shouting and the noise of wheels on the road. They rushed to the door to see Tolby standing on the seat of the cart, whipping Bumblebee stoutly, driving him at a dead run into the farmyard. Grace felt her blood go cold.
Tolby sprang from the cart as Bumblebee came to a halt, put his shaggy head down, and wheezed. “It’s Hos,” he yelled to Keldan. “Help me get your brother down.” Over his shoulder, he said to Lily, “It’s bad. Go get the cleanest cloths and hottest water you can. And your staunching poultices. We’ll carry him down to the cellar.”
“Can’t we take care of him up here first?” Lily wrung her apron with her hands, wiping them off, bracing herself.
Tolby shook his head. “Ravers, he told me. Ravers on the road, with hounds and others. Not a minute to waste. There isn’t a tree or house worth the lives of any of you.”
“Get him inside, then!” With a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cry, Lily ran inside her home. Nutmeg reached for the harness on Bumblebee and Grace sprang to help, freeing the lathered-up and bone-tired pony. She and Nutmeg watched as the two men shouldered Hosmer’s limp and bloodied form from the cart bed as carefully as they could, but his square, heavy frame almost overwhelmed them. He groaned as Tolby stumbled crossing the threshold. Small gobbets of blood dripped from the longcoat wrapped about his leg. Grace watched the crimson blood dribble down, transfixed, then a thought struck her. “I’ll get the vinegar.”